101
by Calathiel of Mirkwood
Summary: Clarke didn't come down with the 100 but when the Ark crashed. To escape her mother, she is the medic for an injured young man captured by the Guard. Life will never be the same.
1. Chapter 1

The muse spoke and it spoke loudly. Who was I to argue? I've seen a few of these type of fics before but never this blend. Hopefully it is entertaining, thought-provoking, and all the other things good fiction should be.

Updates will be semi-regular, as I am able, but know that this is unfinished and I am writing as I update so bear with me. Real life is frustratingly demanding. And now, on to the show!

**Chapter 1**

Clarke remembers every detail of the moment they touched down on earth.

She remembers panic, exhilaration, sweat, aching in her fingers from holding chair, and the pull of the belts across her lap and chest. She remembers taking that first breath of unfiltered, non-recycled air. She remembers drawing in deep, closing her eyes, and feeling an immense sense of freedom spread like a fire through her form…

That sense was fleeting apparently because she feels none of it now. Yes, the air is sweet and crisp, smelling of earth, damp, and leaves, and she breathes deeply of it but she also feels the churning weight of frustration coiling in her belly.

She only received her task a few moments ago but already she feels flushed and angry because, while her relationship with her mother had never been good, she had never felt so trapped. The earth beneath her standard issue boots is littered with branches and pine needles and they snap under her weight, bowing into the soft, dark soil.

Perhaps, it was the remnants of a childhood long expired but she had thought her mother would loosen her grip once the Ark came down. Reality was very different.

Two weeks had passed and nothing had changed. Clarke was relegated to the medbay and her mother's close and watchful eye. They had patched the wounds received by the impact of the Ark landing and the occasional poisoning from an adventurous soul trying a new and apparently dangerous food. The hours were long and hard, filled with back breaking work and training.

From her brief lunches sitting in the pale sunlight away from the smell of sanitizer, the glare of white sheets, and the immense pressure of her mother, she knew that a rough wall had been constructed around the wreckage of the Ark—electrified by a few days' work on the part of Wick and Raven—and some semblance of order had been set up. Chancellor Jaha was still lost to them, presumably dead, and Marcus Kane had taken his place, the only other occurrence that thinned her mother's lips other than Clarke's own behavior.

Ahead of her glowed the lights of the Ark in the fading light. Her long day still held one more task and she would see it done. She stepped into the shadows of the Ark and made her way down the main hallway.

Shouting and sounds of weight being thrown about echoed down the deserted corridor. The entry to the makeshift detention area was unguarded and the doors were accessed so Clarke passed on. The keycard in her palm misted with sweat. What exactly had she gotten herself into? Several of the Guard should have been on duty to check her ID and confirm her assignment.

Even still this was preferable to her mother's company at the moment. With that in mind, she stepped carefully into the cell and found herself in the chaos.

Three guards were huddled in the corner holding down a bucking, writhing form. They were struggling and their foreheads were shiny with sweat. "Get him down!" One yelled and, on impulse, Clarke found herself moving forward until they caught sight of her.

"Miss Griffin, please step back." One stepped to her, panic and shock in his expression. She recognized him from Station 3. He had let her watch the moonrise with him one evening after a particularly vicious fight with her mother, sharing his battered thermos of tea.

Another guard shouted over his shoulder. "Edmund, what is she doing here? Get her out now! He's not contained."

She held up the unused key card. "I was sent here by my mother." Not entirely a lie but certainly far from the truth. Her mother had wanted her as far as possible from this assignment and Clarke had wanted to be as far as possible from her mother. So she had swiped the key card while her mother watched, tight-lipped, threw a medkit over her shoulder, and stalked out of the medbay. Now she stood here, wondering at the wisdom of her actions but too proud to step away.

"There! Hold him! Hold him there!"

Her excuse seemed to be enough for Edmund and he threw himself back into the fray. The bucking seemed to lessen with his return, though she could still hear and see the ongoing struggle.

She tried to see what was happening but only the thrashing of a tattered pair of boots was visible amongst the guard uniforms. There was sound of pain as one of those boots made contact with Edmund's stomach and she heard the crackle of the baton.

"We're live!"

A snap and then the smell of burnt flesh filled her nose. The struggling ceased and seconds later the guards were stepping away, wiping at their foreheads and breathing hard.

Their quarry was left sitting behind, bound by each wrist to the grate above his head and feet tied together and fastened to a bolt in the floor, all with corded steel ties. His chest was heaving and even across the room Clarke could see the glassiness to his eyes. He looked like a wild thing, with unkempt hair and covered with mud, but he wore the same standard issue boots, though more worn than hers, and dark, nondescript clothing of the Ark. He moaned softly, hands twitching and writhing as he recovered from the burst of electricity.

For a moment, she was confused. She had no psych experience. They should have called in a behavioral health tech for this, not medical. Then she saw the blood. It spread up his left side, darkening his shirt dangerously near his heart, and pooled on the floor around him in a macabre painting.

The fear snapped out of her with a blink. This was her patient and he needed care. "What happened to him?"

"We aren't sure. We think a stray bullet must have caught him. We thought he was a grounder at first."

She paused in rifling through her kit and knelt on the floor, a few safe feet away, to set out her things and to put on a pair of gloves. "What is he then?"

"Came down with the delinquents, the 100."

Clarke wondered at the poison in Edmund's voice but had no time to inquire after it. She located a pair of scissors and gauze and scooted forward.

He was young, her patient, slightly older than her with shaggy dark hair that fell across his forehead and freckles dappled across his cheek bones. In the dim electric light, it was difficult see anything else. "I need more light," she called and heard movement behind her.

She touched her patient's shoulder lightly and waited for a reaction. When she received none, she moved in. She wasn't an idiot, three guards had struggled to control him. She didn't particularly want to end her day in the infirmary herself. Another light clicked on behind her head and her patient was illuminated.

His respiration appeared to be shallow but was regular. Pupils were dilated but symmetrical so head trauma was unlikely. Pulse was fast and thready. Temperature was elevated, though whether that was from his struggles or from infection it was difficult to say without inspecting the wounds. Bruises and scrapes in various stages of healing littered his arms and legs, particularly prevalent on his knuckles and hands. It seemed then that the wound on his side was her primary concern.

Preliminary inspection done, Clarke cut open his shirt around the wound and began her work. She was just reaching for another pad of gauze to staunch the blood loss when suddenly he lurched forward.

The guards also moved in close, batons brandished and crackling.

"No!" Clarke threw up a hand behind her. She wasn't sure how his body would react to another blow. "No! It's alright! We're alright! He's just afraid!"

He met her gaze, half-lidded and watery.

"Aren't you? You're just afraid." She held up her hands, revealing the gauze. "We haven't been introduced. My name is Clarke. You've got a wound to your side and I would like to tend to it. Would that be alright?"

She waited tensely as he blinked sluggishly at her. Then his eyes slid closed and he went limp.

Clarke spent over an hour tending to her patient. He had indeed been shot in the side, a deep gorge across his ribs, but she didn't believe it would be life threatening, given rest and time. She created puddles of muddy water where she tried to wipe away the dirt and it took several gauze pads to stem the blood. When that was accomplished, she administered a healthy dose of antibiotic, a vitamin injection for good measure, and bandaged the wound thoroughly.

The job was dismal by comparison to the pristine medbay but it was all she could do for now. She would have to talk to her mother about future trips. He would need tending if he was to recover properly. Infection and fever were a serious risk.

Edmund waited for her by the door, just inside the room. He looked uncomfortable now that the excitement was over, but his eyes darted to her patient every few moments and his gaze darkened with every look.

"I'll need to return in the morning to check on him." Clarke said, gathering her things. "He's stable for now though."

Edmund nodded, but it did not seem as though he heard her.

She waited a moment, weighing her words. "I would go easy on those," she gestured to the baton at his side. "He's too weak for any more trauma."

"I'm not sure he'll get that luxury. He's lucky they didn't shoot him dead on sight." Wells looked as though he wanted to finish the job and the stare made Clarke's blood run cold.

"What do you mean?"

He looked confused. "Don't you know who this is?"

Clarke threw her bag over her shoulder and joined him by the door, shaking her head. "No, should I?" She cast one last glance back at her patient, head drooped against his chest and the white of the bandages. He seemed innocent enough but a twist of apprehension filled her as Edmund stood beside her.

His eyes were dark and serious as he answered, "Clarke, he's the one the shot the chancellor. That's Bellamy Blake."


	2. Chapter 2

Jeepers! What a response to this story! Thanks, guys! Please let me know what you think is working and what isn't working so well. Clarke's voice is an unfamiliar one for me to write and I'm still struggling to find it, I think.

As a side note, this story is turning out to be a bit of a lengthy monster so bear with me if all isn't explained right away. Answers will come. Eventually. For now, here's the next installment.

**Chapter 2**

Breakfast was still settling uncomfortably in Clarke's belly, the heat of the porridge warming her, as she made her way across the compound. The morning air was colder than she expected and her breath fogged slightly as she walked.

Her mother had secured them quarters within the Ark wreckage so they did not spend their nights exposed to the elements for which Clarke was initially grateful. However, the room felt small and cramped this morning, the tang of their most recent disagreement fresh in her mind.

They hadn't always fought like this. Clarke supposed it began with her father's arrest and execution. Clarke herself would have been sent to the Skybox if it hadn't been for her mother's intercession on her behalf. As it was, she spent three months in her room, aside from her shifts in the medbay. Since then, words between Clarke and her mother had been sharp and bitter. Abby often argued for Clarke to be more understanding, to do her job. Clarke argued for Abby to stand up for those beneath them, for her to have fought for her father. What good was fighting for her daughter when she was the reason for her husband's death?

Whatever the argument, the instigating topic mattered little, save that it served to further widen the breach between mother and daughter.

Clarke pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, trying to push away the memories, and re-shouldered her bag. She had a task this morning that did not involve her mother or memories of her father. That was a rarity and she would not waste the opportunity. Her patient in the detention area would need his dressing changed and the wound further inspected for signs of infection.

Camp Jaha was quiet and still, only a few moving in the growing dawn aside from the sentries, and so she made quick progress to the wreckage across the clearing. Station 4 had spilt into two pieces in the Ark's landing, gratefully making contact only yards from each other. The wreckage behind her was used for sleeping quarters, the medbay, and as a center of operations. Ahead of her was the section used for storage, engineering, the Guard's barracks, and the detention area.

To her knowledge, her patient was the detention area's only inhabitant, but the entire camp was charged with suspicion and fear after attacks by a mysterious indigenous population shortly after they made contact. The sentries looked particularly skittish this morning, instead of the sleepy boredom she was used to seeing, and Clarke found herself moving awkwardly past two of them before her boots stepped back onto the steel of the Ark.

The detention area was located near the entrance, only a few hallways back, and Clarke arrived in moments. Edmund was waiting for her, his heel tapping sharp rhythm on the metal flooring.

"Still on shift?" She asked, holding up her keycard.

He nodded, pressing his own keycard to the cell door. "Should get off in twenty."

"Porridge for breakfast this morning."

"Excellent." He winced and then motioned for her to stand back as the door hissed open. "All quiet in there last night. Thought he was dead at one point, he was breathing so little, but he recovered."

Clarke stepped inside, feeling her chest tighten. Even across the room, she knew her patient had a fever. His cheeks were a bright red and his eyes were pressed tightly closed as he shivered, sagging deeply against the grate. "Why didn't you call me?"

"Thought he could make it the night. Besides, Dr. Griffin ordered minimal medical assistance for him. Supplies are low. Not much you can do with that order."

Clarke felt her lips thin, another thing to discuss with her mother. "Thank you, Edmund. I've got things from here."

"Dr. Griffin says you're not to be alone with him-"

The annoyance that had been building all morning lashed out. "He's bound and he's got a fever. I think I'll be fine."

"But-"

"I'll handle Dr. Griffin."

Edmund watched her appraisingly for a minute and then seemed to acquiesce. "Knock twice when you're done."

The door shut and she finally let out a breath, feeling the tension bleed from her shoulders into exhaustion. With her back turned to the patient, she had a modicum of privacy and almost immediately tears burned at her eyelids. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Her father would never have let things be like this…but there was not time for that now. No time or space for such thoughts. Not truly even here.

Taking a shaky breath, she shook her hair back and prepared to re-assess her patient. Bellamy. That was his name. Bellamy Blake. She wondered dimly what brought him here. Why he'd attacked the Chancellor. Instead, she called out softly, "Bellamy? It's Clarke. I'm going to look at your side again. I think you've got a fever and I'm worried that you might have an infection."

She knelt by his side, pausing when he jerked in fever dreams. He returned to them and she to her work. The words came easily now, pouring from her. As many disagreements as she may have had with her mother, medicine was their one common thread, their one place of refuge. Medicine intrigued her as she learned about the functions of the body and tended those with injuries. Typically, she did not speak as she worked but today the words calmed her.

"You've got an infection alright. The fever is the body's attempts to ward off the bacteria, likely obtained at point of contact with the bullet. I'd like to rule out a foreign substance such as a poison through a blood work panel but that's not possible. I'm told supplies are too low but we will keep an eye on it."

She tended what wounds she could reach with salve and bandages until her fingers fell on the antibiotics and the IV bag. He needed them, she knew. Her mother's orders had been clear and antibiotics and IV fluids were as precious as oxygen had been on the Ark. Without them, his survival was unlikely. His fever was too pronounced and the wound was too inflamed. With them, he stood a chance.

Hesitation lasted only a moment before she inserted a line in one of his fever-thinned veins, depressed the button, and the injection of antibiotics was delivered. He was her patient and her patients deserved care. "I've done all I can for now but I'll be back later, Bellamy. You're going to make it through this."

She hung the IV bag above his head and moved to gather her things when fingers brushed her arm. She jumped back in alarm and in a moment dark eyes met hers.

He was staring at her, surprisingly clear-eyed, as if he was trying to make sense of her. His tongue swept out over his lips and he croaked out, "You're not O."

Clarke found her own voice unsteady in surprise and hated the tremble. "No, I'm…I'm your medic. My name's Clarke."

He made an unintelligible noise and then he was asleep again, lost to the fever.

She waited a moment but he was still. Her things were swept up into her bag easily and she exited, not quite able to resist a quick glance back as she stepped out of the room and wondered what would come of the young man. His future could not be an easy one.

Outside, Camp Jaha had sprung to life. The once open space was buzzing with nervous energy. Two engineers pushed past her as she emerged from the shadows of the Ark, chattering and gesturing. They seemed heated about whatever it was that they were discussing, and they were tapping away at their screens.

Sinclair followed them and Clarke reached out, snagging his jacket. "What's going on?"

"Another attack. Two of the Guard are missing. The chancellor has called an emergency meeting."

"What's the plan?"

Sinclair shrugged helplessly, and turned in her grasp. "Clarke," he implored, "I've got to get supplies…with your mum in the meeting…and the missing Guard…"

Clarke nodded, her mind already whirring with the possibilities. Her grasp loosened enough that he could fully twist away and then he was gone down the corridor and out of the pale sunlight.

Another attack so soon. The repercussions of that could not be pleasant for any party.

Clarke found it especially disturbing since they knew so little about these 'Grounders'. Prior to finding Bellamy, they had no confirmation that any of the 100 had survived the earth. Clarke doubted that any of the Ark would have made it to the ground if the oxygen supplies were not so desperate.

It seemed that when the people were asked if they would rather die in space or on the earth, they would chance the risk of the earth. Deep down, Clarke knew her mother was largely responsible for the decision and in passing moments she could feel a flicker of pride for that.

But then she remembered her father and all the turbulence returned.

It began slowly, when her mother's face blanched, the hollowness of her smile, or the tension in her shoulders whenever Clarke mentioned her father. More than grief was evident in her expression. Fear, anger, and gaping regret were all visible as well.

And the once fairytale life Clarke lived began to crumble, giving way to a world where oxygen was plentiful but the world seemed more dangerous than ever.

"Clarke," a hand closed on her elbow, gentle but insistent all the same, and startled her from her thoughts.

She wrenched her arm free with barely a thought upon seeing who spoke to her, hot anger igniting in gut. "Get off of me, Wells."

"I just wanted to see if you're alright."

"I'm fine."

He tried again. Wells was nothing if not persistent, always had been in their chess matches and at their studies. She had admired it once. "Your mother was asking about you."

Clarke re-shouldered her medkit and kept walking, expression carefully neutral.

Besides being steadfast, Wells had another attribute. A highly defined sense of right and wrong. His relationship with his father was strained, yes, but Wells was always respectful and thoughtful in all of their exchanges. Where perspective for Clarke bled away into livid frustration, Wells remained irritatingly insightful. And so he continued on, trying for the seven millionth time to mend the gaping holes between mother and daughter. "Clarke, you shouldn't treat her so badly. She cares for you."

Clarke's composure fled, an occurrence that was becoming a startling regularity, and she let the anger run wild. "She lied to me!" Wells seemed taken aback by her intensity, the cracking in her voice. She continued, "And so have you."

"Clarke-"

"Give me an honest answer. Just one. Why won't anyone tell me who was responsible for my father's execution?"

He stayed quiet.

A noise of disgust escaped her and she stalked away, her knees pumping hard on the uneven ground. Her heart thundered in her ears and she could feel her eyes burning with unshed tears. She was expected in the medbay but she couldn't face her mother now. Not after that exchange.

So she turned sharply and ducked down towards the bowels of the crash, where fuse panels, welders, and tangles of wires were prevalent. The air was even colder here and she pulled her coat closer about her shoulders.

In the dim blue light, she could make out a lone figure swearing over some dismantled electronic device. The figure didn't look up as she entered, merely threw down her cutter and sighed loudly. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Just needed some space."

"Plenty of it now. We're on earth, Clarke. Get excited."

Mustering a half-smile at the sarcasm, Clarke tossed her medkit in a mostly empty corner and settled herself on an overturned ration bin. She could read the nervous energy on Raven's face at only a glance. "Have they heard anything about the rest of the 100?"

Raven shook her head, concentrating just a touch too hard on her work. "Just Blake." She fetched another tool from a rusting bin. "How is he, by the way? As dangerous as the Guard would have us believe?"

"Unconscious mostly."

"He said anything?"

"He's got a gunshot wound to his side. Talking isn't high on his priority list." A blur of pain washed across Raven's face, a rare show of vulnerability from the mechanic, and Clarke quickly added, "I'm sure Finn's fine, Raven. His signal was the last to go out. If half the things you've said about him are true, we will see him in no time."

"Yeah," Raven's tone was infused with forced optimism but her work became less sporadic and she swore slightly less.

Clarke waited out the next hour curled in a corner of Raven's newly acquired shop, fiddling with random pieces of scrap metal and generally avoiding thinking about her upcoming shift in the medbay. She couldn't avoid it forever though. Risk of negative effects from radiation was still very high and the essential personnel were to be monitored twice daily, a precaution that taxed the medbay staff heavily.

Someone would be coming to look for her shortly. Her docket of patients would be waiting. Medications and bandages to be administered. Worries to be soothed.

She sighed and scooted to her feet. Best get on with it. She opened her mouth to speak to Raven and was cut off by the whine of feedback from an electronic advice and the distant echoes of a voice.

It seemed the council had something to share.


End file.
